Pietà
by Villemoo
Summary: Character study on Barsad, the mercenary, the marksman, the killer.


The crimson splash was quick and bold, painting the wall behind his target in a brilliant shade of red. It stuck out from the dusty beige covering all buildings in the city, signalling to others there was danger lurking on the rooftops.

He kept his eyes on the stain, observing the shielded terrace. Sure enough there was a flicker of movement. A shadow appeared on a parallel wall, sliding steadily towards the bullet hole left from his projectile.

He didn't smirk, but the satisfaction spilled in his body, the warm rush relaxing him further into his nest. The butt of the rifle was planted steadily on a sandbag pressed to his shoulder but it felt like an extension of him, a third arm, a limb no one else had and only he knew how to use.

Barely any conscious effort was present in his mind when he carefully aimed the rifle. The crosshairs were positioned to the right and up, as he corrected for distance and drop, effortlessly. How convenient his target came to him, and there was no need to adjust the scope.

He caressed the trigger and as always, the shot came almost as a surprise even to him, his brain deciding nearly on its own when his breath was at the optimal point. The exhale just ended and muscle memory in his body made him set off the bullet.

The course it took differed only slightly from the previous one. The same amount of time passed until he saw a brilliant burst of blood, this one on the floor.

Weird.

His brows furrowed when he thought over the thing he must have forgotten and miscalculated. Did the target move? He should check the temperature and humidity after he'd be done with his observation - perhaps it was later than he'd anticipated.

"Mister?"

Weak voice from behind confirmed his suspicion, it had to be nearly dinnertime. His shielded spot granted him perfect cover, but at the same time made him immune to the slight changes of light in his surroundings. And he was much more elevated than his targets.

Not a matter for right now, anyway.

Wordlessly, he sat up and started the daily ritual of dismantling his nest. This would be the last time. Target neutralized, he would be relocating soon, off to new conquests and possibilities.

Descending the steps to the apartment he inhaled deeply. There was a very welcoming whiff of spices in the air, cumin, cinnamon and cloves. His dinner's nearly ready, a quick glance at the clock confirmed that everything was on schedule. Just as he liked.

Now, there was time for cleaning. The rifle went first, as always. Barsad sat cross legged on the thick carpet and slid a backpack with his things close. The cleaning rod needed assembling, and he used the moment it granted to observe a pair of curious brown eyes watching him intently from the crack in the ajar door.

The kid was skittish, even more so after two weeks in his company. He was a quick learner and noticed after only a day Barsad liked his silence. The knowledge came with a price though.

The cleaning patches and solvent at the ready, he prepared the rod further, covering the tip in white cloth. A dabble of clear liquid and he set on cleaning the bore. His movements were quick and precise, the cloth came out black from fouling. The action of caring for the weapon was gratifying in and of itself, the results as instant as it was with the shooting.

That was the way his life was lead. Use something, maintain it if the effect could be replicated, or discard if its usefulness expired.

When he applied dry lubricant soft steps could be heard beyond the door. A smirk appeared on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening.

So many people remarked on his easy smiles, on how trustworthy he seemed. The woman in the other room was the latest to do so. But she never repeated the sentiment after the first time. Probably because she had the same learning experience as her boy.

After the clean-up Barsad usually took a bath, but this time he deviated. A short command shouted the woman's way resulted in a burst of noise in the kitchen, something cluttered on the floor and broke with a beautiful and clear sound.

There was beauty in destruction. Nanoseconds, when once whole objects disintegrated, the impact changing shapes from orderly to chaotic. Infinitely variable and fascinating.

He ignored the hushed apology for the noise and waited until the door shut quietly all the way.

The radio cracked, but the reception wasn't too bad. He punched in all his codes and joined a safe line of communication.

Bane listened to his report with his usual concentration, grasping all tidbits of information he needed even if Barsad hadn't explicitly voiced them out. This ability to extrapolate knowledge was uncanny; it added to the long list of characteristics that made Barsad admire the man with fervour he didn't think himself capable of. But here he was, eager to please his boss, even though he was sent to this shithole of a country, to rot away in an oppressive heat with a whining bitch and her bastard son in tow.

The orders were clear and he let himself exhale in relief after the conversation ended. Finally, this drudgery will be over.

He stood up and opened the door, standing on the edge of the kitchen with a smile.

The woman hesitantly smiled back, although her eyes stayed weary. The boy was nested on her lap, clinging tightly, his shoulders twitching with muffled sobs.

There was food on the table, prepared to be delivered to him. Flatbreads and a stew, some greens and colourful rice, stuffed vine leaves and grilled fish. Tea waiting in a pot on the side, ready to be poured.

The abundance surprised him in the beginning, but it was obvious the woman counted on him leaving most of the food for herself and the boy. So he threw everything he didn't eat out of the window. To teach her a lesson. The next evening she prepared a humbler meal and he taught her another lesson then - not to assume anything without confirming with him. She still carried the reminder of that teachable moment on her neck, the bruise now a yellowish-green shadow underneath her veil.

But she returned his smile, despite everything.

He let the expression reach his eyes when he neared her. Many people had told him he was charming, that the easy familiarity he carried himself with when talking with others was like a magnet. He inclined his head, leaned in, lowered his voice; it all came naturally.

Everything was a tool, including his body.

"I have finished my task," he said simply.

The woman smiled in earnest, a hopeful glint entering her eyes.

Barsad stroked the top of her head with his left hand and crouched before her.

"I will be leaving tonight," he added.

The brown eyed boy quieted and peeked at him, twisting his head on his mother's chest.

"So I guess this is a goodbye," Barsad said calmly.

The child didn't tense when he pushed the knife in his back, tip of the carbonated steel penetrating textile and soft tissue with ease, sliding between his ribs. Perfectly aimed thrust was enough to end him before he had a chance to register anything but happiness from the information he just heard.

The woman looked astonished at the blood-covered tool when Barsad rose back up.

He killed her with a tenderness of a lover, effortlessly muffling her anguished cries. Her body writhed, but he held her close, even though her arms were still convulsively clutching the corpse of her son.

She deserved quick release, he thought while eating the food she prepared for him. After all, she cared for him, for the past two weeks.

The puddle was spreading fast on the tiled floor, the blood following every little creak and dent in nearly black rivulets. What a beautiful colour, so dark and glistening so beautifully on the ceramic blue background, he thought idly. Usually he saw only the brightest of shades, the liquid spread thin with the impact, smooth surface pebbled with shattered bones and brain matter.

Leaning down he dipped his pinky in a slowing streak running beside his boot.

He cast one last glance at the tableau of mother holding a child. Her head was resting limply at the top of his, as if she was shielding the boy, her arms still circling his little body.

What was the name of those religious figures, Mary holding Christ taken off the cross?

The word eluded him and he let it go.

It was beautiful anyway, the moment frozen in time.

When he turned his back to leave, his mind was already processing his next task.

There was always a target waiting to be taken down. All he needed to do was wait patiently for his orders.


End file.
